The Arrow

The Arrow

The arrow, that was once a glimmer of hope,
that was once a shining symbol of all that is right with the world,
has started to rot inside of me


The arrow that I welcomed with open arms when it was shot into my heart,
is now twisting and turning inside of me, it is on fire inside of me


And with each passing day that I leave it there, it hurts


It hurts more and more and more, like a flaming dart thrown from the hand of chaos himself


But I do leave it there, because the anguish that it gives me is the only thing still connecting me with you

Not your face, your touch, or your smooth lips; but the arrow in my heart,
rotting, decaying, twisting and turning inside of me,


Until one day, when I am soaking in self pity I will be shot again,
but not by an arrow from cupids deceiving arm; but by a gun,
that fires a bullet wrapped in the grief of my lost love.

By Daniel Morgan